The Glass House

by Jennifer Ashley

  I cupped my hands and shouted. "Louisa!"

  The sound reverberated from the glass window, the dark room, the empty tables and chairs.

  I left the main room and made my way, slowly in the near pitch black, to the stairs that led to the attics. I climbed these painfully and emerged once more in the tiny hall where I'd found the room in which Peaches had kept her most precious things.

  "Louisa!" I called.

  I heard a faint cry, not from Peaches' room, but from the one opposite, the attic room I'd not seen. I groped for the door.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs, a heavy tread that shook the stairwell. I wanted to shout out, Pomeroy, she's here, but I knew the next instant that it was not Pomeroy.

  I tried to turn and ducked when I felt the whistle of the cudgel. It struck my knee, and I started to go down. Then pain exploded in my head. I fell, sick and dizzy. I heard the faint cry again, the voice behind the door asking what was wrong. I tried to climb to my feet.

  I was struck again. I fell back to the floor, pain washing me.

  Someone grabbed me beneath the arms. I tried to twist away, but I could not get my weak leg under me to rise, to fight. A sack was thrust over my head, cutting off my words and my air, and I was plunged into darkness.

  *** *** ***

  A long time later, I heard a voice--low, sweet, and urgent.

  "Lacey. Wake up, for God's sake."

  I opened my eyes. All was black and close, and I could not breathe. I struggled.

  After a time I realized that I lay face down on a hard floor, a canvas bag firmly in place over my head. My hands were bound behind me. I tried to draw a breath and coughed.

  The bag reeked of human sweat and other odors that did not bear close examination. Its drawstring encircled my throat, not tight enough to choke me entirely, but enough so that I could not dislodge it. My hands were bound firmly behind my back with chafing twine. They had not needed to bind my legs. Any attempt to rise brought excruciating pain.

  "Lacey?"

  The voice was not Louisa's. The lady sounded far from me, and I wondered why she did not hurry to my side and help me.

  I answered, but my words were muffled through the bag.

  "Thank God," she said. "Are you all right?"

  "Not really," I mumbled.

  "I do not understand what happened," Her voice was thick. "I was leaving the theatre in Drury Lane. On a sudden, a large man was beside me, and he had hold of my arm. My servants were nowhere in sight. I believe I fainted, which is odd, because I never faint. Then I woke up here, bound hand and foot. I do not even know why."

  I could not tell her, muffled as I was.

  I found that if I used my chest and shoulders, aided by my right leg, I could move across the board floor about an inch at a time. The exercise was tiring and the bag stifled me, so I only progressed about half a foot at a time before having to rest.

  She ceased talking, but I heard her hoarse breathing. Sick and dizzy from the beating, I could only make for her at a snail's crawl.

  A few feet along, I came, surprisingly, to the edge of a carpet. I smelled dust and wool through the cloying bag. The raised lip of the carpet was about an inch high.

  I began my arduous climb to the rug, then stopped, frustrated, when the carpet caught on the bag and pulled it tight against my head. I fumed for a few moments, until my buzzing brain made me realize that if the carpet could pull the bag one way, it could pull it another.

  I leaned my cheek on the carpet and inched backward. The carpet held the bag in place, and my chin came hard against the cord. I continued to wriggle and work at the edge of the bag with my jaw, until all at once, the cord came loose and the bag rose halfway up my face.

  Luckily, my assailant had not tied the cord, only pulled the drawstring tight. I wriggled some more. The bag caught on the corner of the carpet, and at last I was able to withdraw my head.

  I lay for a moment, simply breathing, the stale air as sweet to me as that of a spring morning. I smelled a thick, spicy perfume as well, very different from the lemony scents Louisa Brandon wore.

  The room was nearly pitch black, but for the faint glimmer of starlight through a window high in the wall. I rolled myself into a sitting position on the carpet. "Where are you?"

  "Here."

  Her voice was weak. I managed to move my right leg under me, but I could not stand.

  "Talk to me," I said. "I will find you."

  "Lacey." She sounded tired. "Why the devil am I here?"

  "It has to do with me and my meddling. I am sorry."

  She gave a faint laugh. "I ought to have known. Where am I, by the by?"

  "The Glass House."

  "Truly? How interesting. I had thought it would be a bit more lurid."

  "We are in the attics. The lurid rooms are downstairs."

  "I see. What a pity."

  I was happy to hear the acid in her tone. Any other woman, Mrs. Danbury, say, might have been in hysterics. Lady Breckenridge was frightened, but not defeated.

  "The house is closed, out of business," I said.

  "I take it that somebody is displeased about that."

  "Mrs. Chapman owned it," I said as I struggled to crawl across the carpet. "But the man and woman who ran it are not happy with me, no. Kensington threatened me with revenge. He did not say he would drag you into it as well."

  "Sordid men think of sordid solutions."

  "He will not have it. Once I get myself free, we will go."

  "Will they kill us?" Lady Breckenridge asked it in a matter-of-fact voice, a lady requesting information, just as she would turn to me at the theatre and ask if I thought there'd be an acrobatics act between plays. "Perhaps dispose of our bodies in the Thames, as they did with Peaches?"

  "Such optimism," I said. But I could not argue with her. I had no idea what Kensington planned.

  At long last, I reached her. Lady Breckenridge lay on her side, facing away from me, her hands and feet bound. Her long hair spilled over the carpet.

  The cords about my wrists had loosened a bit from all my crawling about. I knelt and continued working my hands. The twine cut my skin, but little by little, the bonds slackened.

  My position, half-raised on my knees, my hands frantically working, was not stable by any means. My left leg gave way in a sudden wash of pain, and I fell over, on top of Lady Breckenridge. It was a fine, soft landing place, but I feared hurting her.

  She gave a grunt, and her eyes gleamed in the darkness.

  "Are you all right?" I asked.

  "Not quite. You must weight twenty stone."

  "Untrue. It only feels that way having it fall on you all in a heap."

  She did not laugh. "I would be happier if I had use of my hands."

  "So would I. I am almost free, I think."

  I worked madly at the thin rope. My wrists were raw, pain in the darkness.

  "I suppose after this," I said, "I cannot expect you to speak to me again." I kept my tone light.

  "We shall see. If you manage to free us, I shall be most grateful to you."

  My bonds came loose. My hands, wooden, fell forward. I pushed myself away from Lady Breckenridge and landed heavily beside her. I lay like a drowning man who has just found shore, breathing hard, willing the circulation back into my hands.

  "It would be rude of me to cut you after you saw me home safely," Lady Breckenridge said. Her tone was also light, but her voice hoarse, as though she'd wept.

  She was trying to put a brave face on it, the English upper-class bravado that remained calm in the face of danger. Panic was for lesser beings.

  I had known a lieutenant in Spain, who, when unhorsed and facing four French cavalrymen, he having nothing but a single-shot pistol with which to defend himself, had said to the lead horseman, "Move to the right a bit, there's a good fellow. I want to at least get one of you." He'd shot, and then they'd cut him down where he stood.

  I wanted to hurry, to get Lady Breckenridge far from this place, bu
t my body was tired. The pain in my head had not subsided, my leg still hurt, and I could barely feel my hands. But we had to leave quickly. I had believed Kensington when he said he was not a killer, but that did not mean he would not hire someone to kill for him.

  I had realized, when speaking with Lady Jane, that Kensington had not murdered Peaches himself. He might have wanted to, but he had not. I had decided the truth after rowing up the Thames with Grenville, after learning that Peaches had had no money in her attic room, and after discovering that Lady Jane sometimes lent Peaches her private coachman.

  Most of it had come to me as I'd lain in bed this morning, listening to church bells and enjoying a clarity of mind I'd not had in a while. I had written Sir Montague about my last witness, and could only hope he would pursue said witness if I did not survive.

  But I wanted to survive. I was angry, and I determined to see this out. Nor did I want Lady Breckenridge to come to harm because of my slow stupidity.

  "I will try to untie your hands," I told her.

  She nodded, her hair rustling on the carpet.

  An investigation of my pockets showed me that Kensington's man had relieved me of the small, sheathed knife I usually carried. I groped for Lady Breckenridge's hands, my own aching and clumsy, and found the cords at her wrists.

  For a long time I tugged and picked at the bonds. Hurry, my mind urged. But I was fumbling and slow, and beneath my touch, her fingers were like ice.

  "I could wish for your butler just now," I said, trying to keep up our blithe conversation. "My leg hurts like fury."

  "Barnstable would certainly be useful," she said. "I imagine he and my servants are searching for me by now. Not that they'd think to look here."

  I worked for a while longer, striving for something to say, something witty and funny that would put her at ease. But Lady Breckenridge was an intelligent woman, and I could hear her fear in her intake of breath. She understood that our odds for survival depended on being free and gone by the time Kensington or his brute returned, and that the odds of our being free and gone were slim.

  "How was your leg hurt, Lacey?" she asked. "Not tonight, I mean, but in the Army? It was in the war, was it not?"

  I picked at the knots. "French soldiers amusing themselves."

  Led by a grinning, leering ensign, who'd been delighted to have captured a lone English soldier. He'd decided to take out his frustration over the recent French defeats by torturing me.

  I remembered his rather fanatical laughter, the worried look on his sergeant's face, the glee in the voices of the men who'd decided to follow their officer's example. I remembered gritting my teeth against the pain, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

  "They shattered the leg with cudgels," I said. "After which, they hung me up by the ankles for safekeeping."

  "Good God," Lady Breckenridge said in shock.

  I said nothing, and the memories faded. The French soldiers had gotten their comeuppance when an English patrol had blundered by. The tiny ensuing battle had killed the French ensign and most of the others. The English had not found me and had ridden off, leaving me with the dead. I had stolen the ensign's pistol and water bag and crawled away.

  "You are making me feel rather sorry for you," Lady Breckenridge said.

  "It could have been worse. The surgeon did not have to amputate." When I'd heard this verdict, I had nearly wept with relief.

  Lady Breckenridge's bonds at last gave way. I slipped the ropes from her wrists and began rubbing them, trying to restore the blood to them. Once she began to weakly move her fingers, I moved to untie her ankles.

  Another quarter of an hour passed before I at last got the bonds around her ankles loose. Then I had the devil of a time climbing to my own feet. I sought the wall behind me, leaned there, and tried to catch my breath.

  Lady Breckenridge sat up and brushed the hair from her face. She wore a thin silk gown that rested low on her shoulders, made for attending the opera. Whatever shawl or wrap she'd had, they must have taken it. I removed the coat of my regimentals; I had a devil of a time unfastening the cords with my clumsy hands. I draped the coat over Lady Breckenridge's shoulders, and she gathered it to her gratefully.

  "I will try to get the door open," I said, my voice dry as dust.

  "That would certainly be to our advantage," she said.

  I had to use the wall for support while I made my way to the door. The starlight was faint, showing me little.

  I found the door when my groping hand bashed painfully into the doorframe. The door was locked, not surprisingly.

  I bent to the keyhole and felt a faint draft on my face. That meant that that no key had been left on the other side. I remembered that I'd been able to force open the door of Peaches' room rather easily; I hoped that would be the case here.

  They'd taken the walking stick, of course, the fine, strong cane that had helped me make short work of the kitchen door. My bad leg hurt too much for me to stand on it while I kicked with my right boot heel. The left leg was too weak to make much of an impression if I kicked with it instead. This door also seemed much more stout than the one to Peaches' room.

  I felt for the hinges and found them, cold and metal. If I could remove them, I could pry the door loose. I would need a tool. I fumbled my way across the room, hoping to find something with which to aid me. My boot crunched glass, then I tripped over the remains of a mirror frame. I crouched to discover if anything in the debris would be of use.

  I cut myself on the shards as I sifted through them and grunted and cursed under my breath. Lady Breckenridge asked if I were all right. I said no. While I picked through the glass, I explained to her what I planned to do.

  "I might need your help," I said.

  I heard her struggle to her feet, while I continued to search the floor.

  I found, by cutting myself on it, a fairly large piece of mirror. It might help, but only if the glass were strong.

  Lady Breckenridge's outstretched hand touched mine. I grasped her under the arm, before she could cut herself on the glass, and pulled her with me back to the door.

  The mirror did not work. The door's hinges were old but frozen with rust. I could not pry a gap large enough to lever out the hinge-pin on either hinge. The mirror slipped and cut my hand open, and I swore without apology.

  "They did not even leave me a handkerchief," I muttered, popping the pad of my hand into my mouth.

  "They left mine." Lady Breckenridge slid a warm piece of silk from her bosom and pressed it into my palm.

  I promptly ruined the fine handkerchief by sopping up my blood. I kicked the door, out of temper, but it remained solidly closed.

  "We could try to climb out of the window," Lady Breckenridge said. "If we can reach it."

  The window in question sat high on the wall, a dormer that would look out over the street.

  "It is a long way up," I said. "We could not climb down the roofs without breaking out necks."

  "We might at least shout out of it," Lady Breckenridge said. "Someone might hear us and help."

  I thought her optimistic; if anyone had heard me break in through the back door, not to mention the men who'd brought Lady Breckenridge here, no one had sent for help. Perhaps they'd put their heads under the bedclothes and gone back to sleep, having learned to ignore what went on at number 12, St. Charles Row. I wondered whether the lad I'd paid had actually gone to fetch Pomeroy. In any case, he'd not come.

  The only way to reach the window was for me to lift her to it. She proved light and agile, and scrambled to my shoulders without much difficulty.

  "I climbed many trees as a girl," she said. "To my governesses' despair. They might be happy to know it's proved to be useful."

  Standing on my shoulders, Lady Breckenridge could just reach the window. Happily, the catch moved, but she was still not high enough to open it.

  We decided to try what we'd seen acrobats do; she would stand on my hands while I lifted my arms above my he
ad. She agreed shakily, and I promised to catch her if she fell, and hoped that I could.

  Lady Breckenridge leaned her weight on the wall and braced herself on the sill as I lifted her. At last she was able to open the window and look out.

  "There is a man below," she said, and then she began shouting, her voice strong.

  When she stopped, I heard the unmistakable, smooth tones of James Denis asking, "Is Lacey with you?"

  "Yes," Lady Breckenridge called down.

  Why Denis was there and what the devil had happened to Pomeroy, I could not imagine. Denis and Lady Breckenridge exchanged more words, which I could not hear, then Lady Breckenridge was admonishing me to let her down.

  "He is coming," she said, her voice shaking, but with her sangfroid in place. "But there is a bit of a problem. Someone has set the house on fire."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  We smelled the smoke soon after that. We stood together against the wall under the window, waiting for rescue and trying not to think of the fire rising beneath us.

  It had started in the kitchen, Lady Breckenridge informed me, and had reached the ground floor. Both of us knew how quickly fires could spread, consuming all within its reach in no time at all. We could hear more commotion in the street now, as the neighbors in St. Charles Row and the street behind poured out of their houses and rushed about to stop the blaze from spreading.

  Lady Breckenridge huddled into my regimental coat, the cording hanging loose. We stood side by side, shoulders touching, taking comfort in each other's presence.

  "Donata," I said in a low voice. I took a great liberty using her Christian name; a gentleman did not call a lady, especially not one above his class, by her first name until invited. My father had always referred to my mother as "Mrs. Lacey," both before and after her death. "You are here because of me, and for that I can only beg your pardon. But I vow to you that the men who did this, who dishonored you, will pay for that dishonor. I swear it to you."